


Bait and Sick

by redscudery



Series: Scudery's Saturday Night Fic Fest [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Captain John Watson, Kissing, M/M, Military Kink, Scudery's Saturday Night Fic Fest, Sherlock is a Brat, Sick John, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:20:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Saturday night fic fest prompt: John is sick. Sherlock’s never been sick . Let the fluff happen</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bait and Sick

“Kleedex.”

Sherlock is sprawled elegantly on the couch when John, or at least an apparition that looks like John, shuffles into the room.

“We’re out.” Sherlock can’t help but quirk the corner of his mouth. John’s nose is bright red, his eyes are watery, his hair is standing on end, and his pockets are full of used tissues. 

“You are dot bery hebful. And stop bloody laughing. I’b sick.”

“Tea?”

“Yes, please. By throad hurts.” John walks over to his chair and plumps down into it. Sherlock continues to stare into space, and the flat is silent for several minutes except for the sound of John alternately sniffling and trying to blow his nose.

“The kettle isn’t boiling, John”

“I’b sick, Sherlock, and you wadt me to make tea?” John is sounding a little peevish through the stuffy nose now.

“Well, you were standing, and I wasn’t. Also, didn’t you say the other day that exercise kills germs?” Sherlock is clearly enjoying himself now. Baiting John is more fun than the Internet.

“You’re a complete arsehole.”

“Let me remind you that I am never sick. Sickness is the sign of weakness.”

“Signess is a sign of gerbs.”

“If you simply made up your mind not to be sick, John, you would not be sick.”

“Oh, let be die id peace.” John sinks into his chair and closes his eyes, pulling a fluffy cover over himself. 

Sherlock watches him for a minute, then adds the coup de grâce.

“John, we’re out of milk.” 

3, 2, 1, Sherlock thinks to himself.

There is a a flurry of sleepwear and garbage, and John, who had looked like a homeless Kleenex hoarder one minute ago, is now Captain Watson, shoulders back, and head high. The expression on his face makes Sherlock shiver. Then the Captain opens his mouth.

“You will,” he says, enunciating carefully, “go to Tesco. You will buy chicken noodle soup, paracetamol, milk, honey, and paper handkerchiefs. You will, upon returning, make soup and tea. You will, for the foreseeable future, shut up.” He’s looking Sherlock right in the eyes. 

“Is that clear?” John’s voice is soft, but Sherlock still can’t look away.

“Oh, very well.” Sherlock has to force the petulance into his voice. 

When Sherlock gets back to Tesco, John has fallen asleep on the couch. Sherlock sets down the shopping and looks at him. He is a sorry sight, certainly; his nose is redder than ever and he is, unfortunately, drooling.

Sherlock kisses him anyway, first on his forehead, then his red, red nose, then his open mouth.


End file.
